


Dear Evan Hansen,

by Levis_turtles



Series: Sincerely, Me [2]
Category: Dear Evan Hansen - Pasek & Paul/Levenson
Genre: Depression, M/M, Self Harm, attempted suicide, graphic descriptions of self harm
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-07
Updated: 2017-05-07
Packaged: 2018-10-29 02:37:20
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 3,173
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10844736
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Levis_turtles/pseuds/Levis_turtles
Summary: Interesting,Connor thought, as he watched him walk away.Evan Hansen.T/W in the tags - this shit is seriously graphic, so please don't read if it's going to upset you





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The Connor POV half of my other DEH story, "Dear Connor Murphy"
> 
> Please check the T/W before you read

What the fuck was Connor even supposed to say? Goodbye, cruel world? Suck my dick, you thoughtless pile of pebbles?

No.

Connor Murphy was going to leave this world exactly as he’d endured it – quietly, angrily, and with nothing but the cold slice of a blade to keep him warm.

At least, that was what he’d planned.

In reality, he had silently slashed his wrists, dunked them under the water in the bath, and lost three pints of blood and most of his consciousness before his sister accidentally entered the room, panicked, and called 911.

The staff in the hospital were kind – too kind – and they spoke to him like they were afraid he’d fall apart at the mere mention of what he’d tried to do. He heard his nurses talking in whispers, quiet tones speaking words like “a long history” of “depression” and “self-harm.”

Connor had refused to see his family when they’d come to visit. He wasn’t about to listen to his mother rambling about how disconnected she felt; he didn’t want to watch his father’s face go red as he reminded Connor of all that had been handed to him – of everything he’d deigned to throw away.

They never listened to what Connor had to say in his own defence.

His didn’t want to see Zoe, whose life was hell because of what Connor did – what Connor continued to do. She had this way of looking at him like he didn’t deserve to die – like, if either of them should want to die, it was her.

They would still be able to monitor him, though. No matter what Connor demanded of them, they would always have influences that were out of his control. Connor’s mother had friends everywhere, even the hospital, and Connor wasn’t so doped up that he didn’t notice the familiar sting of a nurse’s eyes watching his every move. Nathalie was a family friend, more loyal to Connor’s mother than her boss, and she was at Connor’s window every twenty minutes, like clockwork. She watched him like he was about to gnaw at the bandages at his wrists, tear out his stitches with his teeth, and laugh as he slowly got what he’d been trying for so long to have.

Connor didn’t want to die anymore. It was mostly a passing thing – he’d want to die for a few hours, then he’d cut himself, then he’d be fine again. There was a science to it, really – a small cut would release serotonin in Connor’s brain, and stabilise his moods. There was also that he liked to watch himself bleed – liked to watch his skin split, watch the blood slowly rise to the surface, watch it spill neatly down his arm.

Of course, trying to explain that to someone would result in institutionalisation, or worse, looks of fucking _pity._ Connor had worked out fairly early on that keeping his mouth shut about that sort of thing was, in most cases, for the best. Which was why, when the spy-nurse entered Connor’s room and attempted to talk to him, he had made the executive decision to pretend to be asleep for a few minutes every twenty minutes, _like_ _clockwork_ , to avoid making anyone any more uncomfortable than they already were.

Which was why Connor was surprised when, not ten hours after he’d been committed, the spy-nurse nurse walked into his room with someone else in tow.

“Just wait here for a few minutes,” Connor heard Nathalie say. He felt her eyes on him for a moment, burning his scrutinised skin for just a moment before everything was okay again, cool and sterile and as unthreatening as a suicide-watch hospital room could be. The other person in the room shifted awkwardly on their feet, but Nathalie didn’t seem to notice. She said, “He shouldn’t wake up, but if he does, don’t worry. Someone comes by to check on him quite regularly, so you’ll be okay.”

“Okay,” the person said. Connor almost frowned – he _knew_ that voice from somewhere, but he couldn’t quite place it. Zoe would have known it immediately – she’d always been good at things like that – but Connor didn’t have a clue.

“Okay, great,” Nathalie said, and then she was bouncing out of the room, leaving Connor alone with a stranger in his room.

The person moved almost hesitantly away from the door, and took a seat. The first chair he tried groaned when he sat down, and Connor had to jam his teeth into his lip to keep from laughing when the guy jumped right back up again with a yelp.

He settled into a second chair, close enough to Connor’s bedside that, were he to open his eyes, he’d be able to see every detail of his face.

Connor desperately wanted to take a look. He recognised that voice, and he was sure he’d know the face if he could just-

“Is she gone?”

The guy yelped, and Connor again found that he had to stifle a grin.

He cleared his throat, after a pause where Connor suspected he was waiting for his heart to start back up, and said, “Yeah, she left.”

Connor didn’t bother to smother his smile at that, and he opened his eyes. There was a brief second where he didn’t see anything but the water stained ceiling tiles above his head, but then his eyes shifted to the side, and he was overwhelmed with a cacophony of thoughts that pretty much just added up to _whoa_.

Connor didn’t know exactly who he was looking at. He’d seen the boy around school, and he vaguely remembered seeing him at a few of Zoe’s concerts, but he didn’t know what grade he was in, or what classes he took, or even what he was called...

“Thanks,” Connor said. He was speaking directly to the boy’s mouth – a habit he’d picked up as a child and had since been unable to kick. He hadn’t spoken in long enough that his lips had gone dry, and he felt one crack when he spoke.

“It’s fine,” the boy said. Connor could tell that wasn’t all he wanted to say, and he wasn’t surprised when, a second later, he asked, “ _Why_ are you avoiding your nurse?" 

“She’s not my nurse,” Connor replied. He licked his lips, tasted blood, sighed. “She’s a family friend, keeping tabs on me because they can’t.”

“Your family isn’t allowed to see you?” He looked devastated at the very thought; Connor almost laughed at him. “Why not?”

“Because I requested that they not be allowed to visit me,” Connor answered. The boy frowned, and Connor was surprised that he actually wanted to satisfy the need to elaborate. He said, “Every bad mother in the world thinks she’s the best mother in the world, and my mother isn’t any different.”

That probably wasn’t the least emo answer he could have given, but fuck it – it’s not like he was going to impress anyone like this: one wrong step away from a padded room. 

Which was probably why Connor didn’t realise that it was probably a bad idea to elaborate on _that_ and say, “It’s stupid that she thinks that, though. I mean, if she’s so great, why is this the fourth time I’ve tried to die?”

Connor knew the exact second that Evan noticed it – Connor’s hands, his wrists, bandaged tightly where they lay on the bed. Every inch of the room was empty; there were no scissors, nothing sharp, nothing airtight.

Nothing Connor could try to use to hurt himself again.

The boy’s face opened with surprise, blue eyes widening, pink lips popping open. Not for the first time, the boy looked like he didn’t know what to say. “You-?”

“There’s no point keeping it a secret,” Connor said, shrugging. “Everyone’s going to know, eventually. These scars aren’t as easy to hide as the other ones.”

The boy looked even more surprised at that.

He wore long sleeves at school, so it was difficult for people to notice the ladder of scars trailing from his fingertips to his left elbow. 

It was getting harder, of course – he was running out of body parts to mutilate. He’d started on his thighs just over a year ago, and his shoulders were already as covered as his arms. He’d started it – self harming, he meant, although he hated that term – just over three years ago, when he was fifteen. It had been a few days after Christmas, and his family had finally gotten too much for him, so he’d retreated to the bathroom, smashed one of Zoe’s razors with the heel of his boot, and carved three shallow lines into the flesh of his smallest finger.

It had helped, obviously, and after that, he’d continued to do it. Whenever things were overwhelming him, whenever he was too choked up to even cry, he’d take that bent, smashed-up razor and carve a couple more lines. 

Sometime after that, he’d started shaving, and it was a lot easier to hide how many blades were going missing after that. He had a store of them in the bathroom, and another in his bedroom, and his mother couldn’t say anything about him replenishing it because she knew that he needed to shave, and she knew that all of the ways she’d tried to make him stop hadn’t worked. 

She couldn’t say anything, but Connor hadn’t expected her to not even try.

That was what had pushed him over the edge, in the end – the thought that she had given up on him, that his father resented him for not being everything he’d hoped he’d be, that Zoe was more afraid of him than anything else, and that she could never really love him because of that – because of everything he’d done.

Evan looked like he’d been stabbed in the gut, his eyes shining with what might have been tears – tears for Connor, for fucks sake. Connor found that he couldn’t stand looking at them, and so he looked away, and caught sight of a nurse standing in the doorway. 

“Evan Hansen?”

That was his name? It was nice; it suited him. 

Evan turned to face the nurse, and Connor took the opportunity to give him a once-over. He was tall, in an inoffensive sort of way. He didn’t dress particularly stylishly, but there was something about the vertical stripes of his shirt and the faded blue of his jeans that suited him, much like his name – by no means good, but not in any way bad. 

His hair was that awkward, sandy shade between brown and blond, and his cheeks were a shade of red that Connor usually attributed to strawberries or tomatoes. He was cute, in that awkward way that nerds often were – not Connor’s type, but then, he wasn’t exactly the pick of the bunch himself.

Not that he was considering the likelihood that this dork would be interested in him.

That would be fucking stupid. 

The nurse smiled, and Evan was almost hilariously ignorant of her interest in him. He made to leave, and Connor raised an eyebrow at him when Evan turned a look at him over his shoulder, almost hesitant to leave. He didn’t have anything to say, so he didn’t try to speak, but he wasn’t quite ready to give up his hold on Evan’s eyes, either.

He watched as Evan stood up, cradling his damaged wrist in his hand as he followed the nurse out the door. He spared one last look back through the window at Connor, and flinched when he realised that he was still watching him. Connor had the satisfaction of seeing Evan’s face redden further, and he barely managed to hold back his smile until Evan was out of sight. 

_Interesting_ , Connor thought, as he let his head fall back against the hospital-issued pillow. _Evan Hansen._


	2. Chapter 2

It was two weeks before Connor was allowed back to school. Things with his family had been tense since he’d been released from the hospital, and he was honestly relieved at the chance to get away from them for a while.

Zoe had told him that, while she’d tried to deny the rumours that he’d tried to kill himself again, it had gotten out. Connor knew from the last time what to expect – the pitiful stares, the angry Christians, the artificially concerned teachers.

It was the same every time someone found out – every time he wore a short-sleeved shirt out to dinner, or to town, or to _anywhere_ that there were people with functioning eyes and a healthy understanding that not all teenagers are having a good time with their lives.

Connor kept his head down for most of the day, tapping his pen against anything he could find just to have something to look at, something to listen to. It was only in Connor’s third lesson, when he recognised the squeak of inexpensive trainers on linoleum flooring, that he chanced a look up. 

Evan Hansen walked through the classroom door – Connor hadn’t realised they had a class together – and when their eyes met, Connor winked. Evan’s face flamed, and Connor wasted a second thinking about how adorable that was as Evan continued to walk towards him.

Connor didn’t notice Evan’s hand dipping into his pocket until he pulled something out of it: a folded piece of paper. He placed it on Connor’s desk as he walked past, never uttering a word as he moved further into the classroom and settled into his seat.

Connor looked down at the paper. It was slightly curved, moulded to the shape of Evan’s thigh because of the way it had been stuffed into his pocket. Connor’s name was written across the front in what he assumed was Evan’s handwriting. It was exactly how Connor would have pictured it, if he’d ever felt the need to imagine Evan Hansen’s fucking handwriting – neat and correctly capitalised, with an arrow-straight backbone to each letter.

Connor wasn’t going to open the note in class – not because he didn’t want anyone to see what Evan had written, but because he didn’t want anybody to see his reaction. A reputation like Connor’s was difficult to maintain, and as much as it irked him to have to put effort into keeping it up, his life was astronomically easier now that people were too afraid to talk to him.

No, Connor wasn’t going to open the letter in class, but he wasn’t about to throw it out, either. He subtly slid the paper off the desk and tucked it into his pocket, buttoning it closed so that the paper wouldn’t fall out.

It stayed that way for almost twenty minutes, until the curiosity got the better of him and Connor slipped it back out. He unfolded it under the desk, and balanced it on his lap as he read what Evan had written:

 

_Dear Connor Murphy,_

_Please don’t throw this note away. You’re probably wondering what the hell I’m doing writing to you, but I had something that I wanted to say and I knew I’d never say it to your face, so we’re just going to have to live with this._

_Can I talk to you? I don’t mean, like, one conversation that you’ll probably forget about after a good night’s sleep. I mean, can we talk? Frequently? To each other?_

Connor snorted. Cute.

_Obviously you don’t have to say yes, I mean, there’s probably a reason you haven’t ever spoken to me before, but if there isn’t, and you’re up for it, I would very much like to – try to? – be your friend._

_Sincerely, me._

 

Against his better judgement, Connor felt his chest warming to the idea. Evan wasn’t the most irritating person Connor had ever met – he reminded him of his sister, in some ways, and they got along some of the time.

Careful not to make too much noise, Connor tore the bottom of Evan’s note away and scribbled a message of his own.

 

_Dear Evan Hansen,_

_Meet me under the bleachers at lunch._

_Sincerely, me?_

 

Twenty minutes later, the bell rang, and before Connor could convince himself that it was a bad idea to drag _yet_ _another_ person into the shit storm that was his life, he stormed to the back of the classroom, slammed his scrap of a note down on Evan’s desk, and stomped off again, ducking through the classroom door without sparing a look back.

He felt the weight of dozens of eyes staring at him as he marched down the hall, his back swinging at his side as he made his way to his next class. The scowl that he had grown used to wearing as a mask was refusing to surface, for some reason, and Connor noticed that amongst the pitiful looks of his ‘peers’ was the mildly curious frown of his sister.

“That’s practically a smile, for you,” she said, when Connor didn’t object to her falling into stride beside him. “Did you see a puppy get run over or something?”

Connor snorted, but said nothing.

“Okay,” Zoe said, slowly enough that Connor knew she wasn’t about to let this go. “But I will find out.”

“Sure you will,” Connor said, as he held the door open for her to duck through before following her into class.

 

Connor spent almost five minutes of lunch attempting to ditch Zoe, who was following him around to find out what it was that had him in such a good mood.

Connor didn’t see the point in denying that he was in a good mood when she’d asked – _he_ _was_. It had been years since he’d had someone to talk to that wasn’t his mother, or his sister, or (God help him) his state-assigned fucking therapist.

It would be interesting to know what real people were like, nowadays.

He sat under the bleachers for the whole lunch hour (except for the five minutes he’d spent running from Zoe) bouncing his leg for the last thirty minutes as he started to think that Evan wouldn’t show.

Evan didn’t show.

Connor didn’t try to hide his foul mood when he re-entered the school building. He kicked the classroom door open, slammed his bag down on his desk, and when he heard the ugly squeak of cheap trainers on a plastic floor, Connor didn’t even look up.

He waited for Evan to pass him before directing his eyes at his back, glaring at that striped shirt with as much venom as he could direct at a single person.

He looked away when Evan started pulling things out of his bag – when Connor started feeling like he wasn’t even all that angry anymore – and when he felt Evan’s eyes pointed at him, he made an effort to keep as still as possible, to not give in to the temptation to turn around and _look_.

He felt Evan’s eyes on him for the whole hour, but when the bell rang for the end of the day, Evan was the first to leave.


End file.
